


Sense

by Siria



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s02e08 Conversion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-23
Updated: 2009-08-23
Packaged: 2017-10-03 19:23:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beckett releases John from the infirmary maybe a little before he should.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sense

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to dogeared for all her help! Written for cliche_bingo for the prompt 'Mutation and Physical Transformation.'

Beckett releases John from the infirmary maybe a little before he should, swayed by John's pleas of boredom and the harried look he's putting on the faces of Beckett's staff nurses. Rodney comes by John's quarters maybe a little before he should, too. He stands stiffly in the doorway for a long moment, hands clasped behind his back and chin tilted up in the air while he rocks back and forth on his heels, self-conscious and awkward. "I, uh, just wanted to come by and see if you were—if you—you seem better?"

"Define better," John says. Beckett's retrovirus is working—with each pulse of the blood in his veins, John can feel the Iratus bug DNA uncoiling itself; his hands and feet have already reverted from the sharp, ungainly claws they'd been before, and his thoughts aren't so clouded anymore. But even in the dim light of his room, his eyes are too pale to be normal, and the loose scrubs he's wearing can't hide the fact that his skin is still rough and blue-tinged, or that two scaly ridges run the length of his spine. He's almost himself but not quite—when he inhales, he can smell Rodney from across the room, soap and salt-sweat and fear and stubborn loyalty, and when he exhales he has to clench his hands into fists because his body can't quite yet remember what it is to be contained.

"Well, you're no longer a mindless homicidal _bug_," Rodney points out, sounding pissy enough that it's almost like things are back to normal—if Rodney McKay can spare enough energy to be sarcastic at you, there's still hope—before catching himself, grinning ruefully at John and sticking his hands into his pockets. He steps far enough into the room to allow the doors to close behind him and says, "I just wanted to come by and say, you know, I'm glad you're still you and not, you know..." He waves a hand expansively.

"A mindless homicidal bug? Yeah, I got that," John says, trying to stand at ease, trying to pretend that he's just standing around shooting the shit with one of his best buddies and that he didn't get shockingly, achingly hard the moment Rodney got close enough for John to smell the pheromones of his armpits and groin, scents more basic even than sweat or soap—to John, Rodney smells like sex, and this is the worst part of it all, how _need_ and _want_ and _desire_ get all confused with one another, tangled up with _take_ and _now_, and if the urges are fainter, more manageable than they were before, they still make it impossible for John to ignore what he's tried for several months not to face. He really, really wants to fuck Rodney.

"Excuse me?" Rodney says, blinking at him. His eyes are huge in a face that's suddenly flushed bright pink—he's warmer all over, John can sense it—and his jaw has dropped just a little. "You—I—maybe I should go get Carson? You're obviously not—"

He hasn't moved though, stands there five paces away from John and stares at him open-mouthed and oh _shit_, John thinks, oh _fuck_, he's got no filter between _want_ and _now_ anymore, and he just said that out loud. "Rodney," he says, voice cracking a little because there's no way to unsay that, and his still too-long fingernails dig into his palms when he sees the look of shock on Rodney's face—when he sees the moment that Rodney realises that that wasn't just bug-induced mania talking.

"Don't," John says, and what he means is _don't tell Carson; don't mention this ever again, please, and I'll try to forget it_, but Rodney's always been prone to ignoring what John says he wants and giving him what he needs instead. Rodney steps forward until he's standing so close to him that John can hear the pulse of Rodney's heartbeat, can't smell anything but Rodney, has to close his eyes against it because looking at Rodney right now might make John do something dumb and naked. "Don't."

"Okay," Rodney says, "Listen, I am going to say this once and once only—if I had any apprehension about this or you, I wouldn't be here. I think I've proved my, uh, aversion to mindless risk on more than one occasion, and with you it's not... How long?"

"Huh?" The question is unexpected enough to make John open his eyes. It feels as if Rodney is even closer than he was before; even in the late evening light, John can see the stubble that edges his jawline, the way his throat works when he swallows.

"How long, John?"

"I don't... Couple months. Maybe." Admitting it makes John want to squirm, makes his skin feel too hot all over, because talking about stuff like this always makes John feel like he's trapped inside one of those nightmares he used to have when he was a kid, where everyone else sounds like an adult from a _Peanuts_ movie and he hasn't got a clue what the hell they're saying.

"You are such an idiot," Rodney says, but his tone is gentler than John was expecting, chiding rather than offended, and his _scent_—John's nostrils flare a little, involuntarily, because there's something underneath the musk-and-salt of Rodney now that John's brain interprets as _excitement_, the sweet tang of adrenaline and sex that makes John want to bury his face in the crook of Rodney's neck and breathe him in.

"Only you," Rodney continues, as if he doesn't notice how avidly John is staring at him, "would need to have your _DNA altered_ in order to admit that you want to—though admittedly, I needed you to have your DNA altered so that I could realise that I wanted to, which is a little bit of a complex situation all round, granted, and—"

"Rodney," John says, voice gone hoarse because there's something—pheromone, hormone, _Rodney_—that's gone straight to John's hind-brain and it's like being right back in the heart of the conversion process once more, when everything was _heat_ and _urge_ and _rut_ and there was nothing wrong with just taking what you wanted. He reaches out and cups the nape of Rodney's neck with the palm of one hand; to John, with his body temperature still a little below human normal, he feels shockingly warm, the skin there fine-grained and smooth, and John wants to lick him there, to kiss him, to know what his scent tastes like.

Something about the greater proximity must get to Rodney, because he blurts out, "Yes, okay, that's—naked now," and then he's steering John back towards the bed, pushing him down onto his back before he kneels over John and kisses him without any hesitation. Part of John wants to balk—he's still blue, for Christ's sake, his lips chapped and rough and how can Rodney want to, to—but Rodney is insistent, pushy, licking at John's lower lip and working his tongue into John's mouth and more of John revels in it, lying there and letting Rodney pull and tug at the green scrubs until they're thrown onto the floor.

When he has John naked, Rodney sits back on his heels and looks at him for a long moment. John shivers a little, because the room is cool and he's naked and the look in Rodney's eyes is _avid_—tracing the line between pale, hairy skin and hairless blue, the ridges that run down over John's belly and lower, down to his hard cock—and the first time Rodney touches him, trailing his fingertips down over John's left nipple, it's all John can do not to flip Rodney over and push inside him then and there.

"You're... well, I mean you've always had a certain air of sexual arrogance to you which, believe me, I find unbelievably appealing, but now you're just... I'm sure there's some kink terminology for how much I want to suck you while you're like this." Rodney lets the blunt edges of his fingernails run along one of the seams of skin, along the retreating line between blue and pale, making John moan. "Is there a difference in sensation? Because that's just—"

"Rodney," John says raggedly, tugging at the hem of Rodney's t-shirt because the sensation he needs right now is skin-on-skin, something to sate the urgent rush of hormones in his veins.

"Oh, right, yes of course," Rodney says when he realises, and he clambers off the bed for a moment to shuck shoes and socks and BDU pants, underwear and t-shirt. When he lies back down beside John, he's naked and hard and John can't help himself from pushing Rodney onto his back and lying on top of him and it's _perfect_—the heat of Rodney and the copper-salt scent of him, the friction and the way he groans when John bites down at the soft flesh of his shoulder.

John can feel his hips start to move against Rodney's, rough and involuntary and so so good when his cock lines up with Rodney's own, and he gives into the urge for a moment, rutting against the hard jut of Rodney's hipbone with the bed-sheets tangled around their legs and Rodney's breathing loud in the air. "I want to suck you," Rodney whispers against his ear, hands palming John's ass and squeezing, "Let me, come on, I'll make it good."

John shakes his head _no_, kissing Rodney roughly for a moment or two before he says, "No, have to, have to be inside you, god Rodney, have to." There's a really good reason why it's so necessary, part of John knows that, but it's so hard to _think_ with Rodney warm beneath him and the lizard part of his brain telling him _take take take_.

Rodney looks a little pale. "I, uh, I haven't done that for a while." John sucks a kiss against the curve of Rodney's collarbone, and grins a little when he feels how that makes Rodney breathe in, startled, how his legs fall just a little apart. "Is this a bug thing?" His voice is a little higher-pitched than normal.

John looks up at him, knowing that his eyes are still more yellow than blue, and lets his hands tighten just a little on Rodney's hips. "I have to fuck you," he says, and rocks down against Rodney and doesn't even try to disguise the shudder that runs through him.

He can see and feel how the heat runs through Rodney when he says that, skin flushing and heartbeat kicking up, and he knows Rodney's going to say _yes_ even before he says "Condoms!" to John.

John leans over and retrieves a box of them and a half-used tube of lube from his night-stand. He hands one to Rodney and says, "On me." He doesn't have the fine motor control yet to do it himself, and has to settle for digging his fingernails into his thighs when Rodney strokes him with a firm grip once, twice, before unrolling the condom onto him.

"It really is fascinating," Rodney says vaguely. "I mean, intellectually I know that it's just a mutated blue pigmentation caused by the introduction of new DNA to your system, and possibly, uh, that also accounts for the... endowment—but there has to be some kink to my psychosexual makeup that makes me just want to—later, I'm blowing you, okay?"

John doesn't answer him, just leans in and kisses him, bites at the corner of his mouth and the edge of his jaw before telling Rodney to turn over onto his hands and knees. Rodney goes without protest, resting his head against John's pillow and spreading his legs just enough to make John groan hoarsely. "I would just like to remind you," Rodney says, "that when I say it's been a while I really do mean it's been a while, so although I am not averse to an energetic fucking, if you could take things slowly at first I would really—_oh god_."

John can't wait anymore, slicking some lube onto his cock and pushing in as slow as he's able to on a long and steady exhale. Rodney is tight and hot and John can feel his eyes roll back just a little in his head, because he's been holding back for so long and now he's right on the verge of letting himself have it. Beneath him, he can feel Rodney's back tremble and the long muscles in his thighs quiver, but the low and regular quality of Rodney's grunts, the smell of his sweat, the way he's pushing back greedily into John's thrusts tell John that he's loving it.

"Good?" he asks, and he grins when he sees Rodney's hands fist in the sheets when he says _harder, Sheppard, f-fuck_.

That's all the permission John needs to give into the urge that's been making his skin itch ever since his door had chimed and opened to reveal Rodney standing there—he lets his hips snap forward harder and faster, pushing Rodney further up the bed and making them both gasp. Heat flares down John's spine, intensifying when he looks down between them and sees his cock pushing into Rodney's body over and over, and there's some ugly, hidden little part of John's brain that's happy at the fact Rodney's probably going to feel this in the morning, that he's not going to be able to forget spreading himself for John.

"Come on," John says, "come on," because there's something in him that needs to feel Rodney fall apart around him, and he bows his head so that he can bite at the high ridge of Rodney's spine. Rodney yelps, but when John starts to suck a hickey there, pulling the copper-rich blood nearer to the surface of his pale skin, he starts to come. _John, John, John_, he chants as he starts to shake, and the smell of Rodney's come in the air is intoxicating. John wraps his arms around Rodney, looping them over belly and chest and gives one final, great thrust before he can breathe again and all the urgency, all the rush and the push drains away and it's just him and Rodney and the sound of their gentling breathing.

John stays there for a minute or two before pulling out with a great deal more care than he could manage not long before. He tosses the tied-off condom into the trash can before lying back down on the crumpled sheets next to a spent Rodney, who's got a half-smile on his face and come spattered on his belly.

"Hi," John says, unable to resist kissing the curve of Rodney's mouth. He feels a strange mix of energised and strung-out, like he's just run a marathon while trying to keep pace with Ronon; it's as if the endorphins in his brain are doing battle with the Iratus DNA and winning.

"Mmmpfh," Rodney murmurs. "Raincheck onna blowjob, mmkay?" His eyes are already drifting closed—it's been a busy day, after all, and a nap doesn't sound too bad to John, either.

"Okay," John whispers back. "You can help me check if the bendiness is going to be permanent."

It takes Rodney a moment to process that, then his eyes fly open and he yelps _Jesus, Sheppard, you can't just _say _that! _

"Sure I can," John says, playing dumb. "It'll be scientific—I have this copy of the _Kama Sutra_ somewhere and..."

Rodney hits him over the head with a pillow and John laughs, and he's pretty sure that once his skin fades and smoothes, once his words are under his control again, they'll both be okay and John will be the same self he always was—he knows what constants he has to guide himself by now.


End file.
